


Velocity

by hauntedbytears



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Motorcycles, Self Destructive Tendancies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedbytears/pseuds/hauntedbytears
Summary: You know when you impulsively steal and crash a motorcycle because you're totally over your first love and totally fine with everything now that you've escaped the government research facility you've been trapped in for years? That feel when you're totally fine and totally over anyone you might have cared about in the past especially one and you totally aren't acting on impulse because you have a history of self-destructive behaviour? That feel?
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Velocity

The throttle under your hands buzzes, thrumming like a heartbeat.

It’s an impulse purchase, if you can call it a purchase, a dirty little thing you let the owner forget about. It’s fine. It’s the first time you’ve stolen something so expensive of your own volition, but you don’t feel the guilt you expected to. It’s just a motorcycle. Just a man who owned it.

You are owed more than this, you tell yourself, and your skin aches under layers of stolen jackets, and your ears are bleeding under the helmet you’ve pulled over your head.

Another impulse decision, to drive that sewing needle through where your piercings had closed over. Your hands had been slick with blood, leaving red fingerprints over the motel sink, but you’d smiled into the mirror then, the same smile pulled across your face now, joyless, wild.

The motorcycle had jumped into life beneath you on the little road like it belonged there, and now you spur it into motion, into a ruthless acceleration with the velocity fighting back against you. For a moment, memories threaten to overwhelm you. For a moment, you are choking back tears on that dusty little road, the wind whipping your jackets hard and angry against you. But you accelerate. And you accelerate. And you try to forget because you are over it. Over _him_.

You’re handling it just fine here, out in the air with the world stretching wide and endless around you.

The most important thing: you are not running away anymore. You are not running away. The velocity comes from correlation, not causation. The speed is coincidental and it is too slow, still too slow.

A sharp right turn, even though the engine whines against your control, and then pressing harder on the gas, willing the machine to move faster, faster.  
Please.

You are constantly on the edge of disaster, like this, but that's something you're used to. Something you've learnt to enjoy if only because there is no other course of action. So it's not even a surprise when you feel the bike buckle beneath you, thrown by some small unevenness in the road meeting the impossible speed you've set yourself at, wrenching control of the wheels from your hands. 

You don’t even see what you hit. A stray stone, maybe, some dip in the road.

You are weightless, for a moment, before you fall again, and there's something like raw fear rising inside you but you’re dealing with it. You barely even process the falling until you’ve landed, thrown meters away in a matter of seconds, your helmet bouncing against the roads with an empty, hollow sound, your jacket tearing to bloody shreds under you.

And, shit, the motorcycle must have been even worse quality than you’d thought, because it’s in flames, the paint peeling in long, sticky strings as the fuel tank burns, an eerie orange glow as the sun starts to set, blinding and strange and _fantastic_.

The bleeding is good. It will remind you that you're alive. The sprained wrist is good. It will keep your gaze from focusing on that long and twisted scar on your leg every night. The broken skin is good. It takes your mind off of your heart. 

Pulse racing, high from the feeling of the fall, you pull yourself into a sitting position, miles from anyone you can sense, and you laugh, loudly, horribly, until your throat is hoarse.


End file.
